Black Rose
by jessica-m-99
Summary: After the Harmon family tragedy, a young girl and her hated father move to the murder house right after her mother's death and Mallory finds she takes much more kindly to the ghosts than inhabitants of the house prior to her, specifically, one Tate Langdon.
1. The Death

**A/N: I have come to the conclusion that I have no filter when it comes to publishing new stories despite my many unfinished works. Oh, well. I don't own AHS or any of the characters, plotlines, or dialogue originally found in the series.**

 **Trigger Warnings: This story deals with depression, mentions of cutting, a parental death and parental abuse, mentions and/or descriptions of graphic sex as well as graphic violence and most of all psychopathy. If any or all of these themes may trigger or affect you in any way, this is not the story for you.**

* * *

It felt like a shot to the chest. She didn't know how else to describe seeing her mother laying there on the sofa, completely immobile, the normal rise and fall of a chest gone.

Her life wasn't supposed to be like this. Her mother had been her best friend and her father, just a drunk excuse for a parent, was nothing but the man who had shoved her into a wall and fractured her arm when she was eleven.

She didn't want to be stuck with him.

Mallory Blake wanted to collapse onto the ground and sob, not with grief but fear. Her green eyes were misty with the tears that never seemed to stop and her brown hair was a wreck, falling into her face and wearing the strains of her grief.

Her mother had done right by them and kicked her father out two years ago and the only reason he had come scrambling back was because her mother had fallen victim to her breast cancer and there was nobody else left to look after Mallory. Her grandmother had passed away just a few years back, her grandfather even earlier before that, and all her aunts and uncles were either in another country or across the state and could hardly come to care for a eighteen-year-old while her mother was sick.

Her father was the only one left.

Never mind that he had nearly choked her to death when he found she had attempted suicide the year prior. After all, you don't need a permit to become a parent and CPS can hardly find proof of any of his horrid treatment.

Now she was stuck with the monster.

Her mother's nurse clung to her tightly as she sobbed into the woman's arms, fighting back the urge to run to her mother's frame and beg her to take her daughter with her.

Emilia Blake had wanted to be with her family when it was nearing the end. When the cancer got so great it became her body, she wanted to spent time with her daughter and Hospice had obliged.

Mallory and her father Michael had held out hope. Emilia had good days every now and then so why shouldn't they assume she could get better? They had hardly prepared for the woman dying in her sleep that evening.

Now, as Mallory cast her gaze over her shoulder at her father standing calmly behind her, she knew she was stuck with the man that had terrorized her nightmares since childhood.

How could things get any worse?

* * *

 _Two Months Later_

She didn't speak the entire car ride. She didn't have anything to say since her father had sold all their furniture, sold the apartment, and found a home across the country as though he couldn't get far enough away from her mother's ghost.

He had uprooted her life right in the middle of her senior year. He had robbed her of her friends and shoved her into this new life all because he wanted to escape memories of her mother.

"Mall, you have to say something," Michael huffed. "You haven't spoken to me for two weeks since I mentioned I found a place."

"I don't have anything to say," Mallory hissed, barely even turning to look at him properly as she stared at the cars passing them out the window on the highway. "You sold all her belongings."

"Well, you didn't want-!" Michael barked. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily before shaking his head. "I'm trying to give us a fresh start and since you didn't want any of her belongings I just assumed…," he trailed off.

"You only offered me her clothes!" Mallory exclaimed. "I didn't want the clothes of a nearly forty-year-old woman, surprisingly, but you didn't stop to ask if I wanted anything else of hers."

"It's hardly any concern of ours anymore, Mallory Blake, and you'd do well to remember that," Michael snapped. "We're getting a fresh start at this house and by the looks of it, we'll have money to spare based on how cheap it went for so you can get some shit to remind you of your mother if that's what you want."

"That's not the same and you know it," Mallory huffed. "I don't care if you got the stupid house cheap, I preferred our apartment."

"I'm not going to live in the apartment where your mother died, Mallory, and that is final," Michael said firmly.

"That apartment was also where my mother and I lived when we were first getting rid of _you_ ," Mallory hissed. "It's where she comforted me after my first breakup and where we spent nights watching movies together, happy," she sighed. "You didn't even ask me before you started packing for this fucking house in LA."

"Hey, that house came dirt cheap," Michael retorted. "It'll be good for us," he assured her. "It's a fresh start."

Mallory rolled her eyes as she kept her gaze fixed on various cars speeding by out the passenger window. "I hope it's haunted just so some ghost comes back to bite you in the ass for leaving mom behind," she mumbled.

"Mallory!" Michael snapped. "I did not leave your mother behind, she died," he reminded her.

"Yeah, and you were quick to get the fuck out once she was gone," Mallory huffed. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were looking at listings during her funeral."

Michael clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead while he was driving so he wouldn't have to address the fact that she was right.

"You didn't even love her anymore," Mallory sighed. "You had a girlfriend and you told me while she was sick that you thought she just used you so she could have a daughter."

"That doesn't mean she didn't matter to me," Michael replied coolly.

"Oh, please," Mallory scoffed. "CPS isn't here you don't need to play the part of dutiful father."

"I'll have you know there was a time when your mother meant a great deal to me," Michael snapped.

"Yeah?" Mallory implored, raising an unconvinced brow. "When did that end? After I was born?"

"No," Michael hummed. "When she announced she was pregnant with you," he said and Mallory rolled her eyes.

This house was going to be a living hell.


	2. Murder House

Mallory stared up at the house with a set frown as she took off her black sunglasses. "I thought you said it had been remodeled," she said.

"Oh, it has," their realtor Marcy assured them with an adamant nod. "The owners before the last. These two homo-homeowners," she shook her head. "They redecorated the whole place."

"Well, it just looks sort of old," Mallory shrugged. "I mean I'm sure the interior is great but this house looks ancient."

"Mallory, stop complaining," Michael chastised. "We got lucky with this house!" He exclaimed. "It's huge. It's got two stories and miles of room. For this asking price we're practically living here for free," he chortled.

"Great, so you can fuck your twenty-something girlfriends downstairs and I'll be safe upstairs in my room?" Mallory assumed, stuffing her hands in her pockets and marching towards the house while her father glared at her.

"I'm sorry about her," Michael sighed. "Her mother just died and I-."

"It's fine," Marcy assured the man with a wave of her hand. "Teenage angst, right?" She smiled.

"Yeah," Michael muttered, though he knew Mallory had been carrying her hatred of him on her shoulders since before she was a teen. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't entirely pleased it would just be the two of them cooped up in that dirty old house, but he didn't have many other options left.

"Mallory!" Michael barked when he saw his daughter beginning to turn the doorknob to the house. "Aren't you forgetting something?!"

Mallory rolled her eyes and flipped him off. "That what you're talking about?" She guessed.

"Mallory Elizabeth Blake, get your ass back here!" Michael shouted.

Mallory groaned and stomped back towards her father.

"I did not buy you that goddamn dog so you could leave it in the car while we're checking out the house," Michael snapped. "Now go get it out or I'll send it to the pound like I should have done ages ago."

"You know why you bought me a dog?" Mallory implored with a raised brow. "Because you knew you had to get me some sort of birthday present on your own after my mother had bought all the presents for the first thirteen years of my life," she huffed as she wandered around to the back of the car and opened up the trunk. "Don't try to act like you care about Rufus when you've said yourself you would sell him off for a penny," she muttered.

Michael rolled his eyes. "If we take this place I'm not taking care of that dog like your mother used to do."

"I was fourteen and never had a pet before him," Mallory sighed. "Shoot me if I asked for her help," she mumbled, opening the cage and allowing the teenage golden retriever to leap out and lip Mallory furiously while she giggled. "Come on, Rufus, we've got a new home to see," she hummed.

She put her leash on her dog before skipping up to the front porch and casting an annoyed gaze over her shoulder. "Well?" She prompted. "I'm not going to stand out here in the blazing sun all day if that's what you two were planning," she said before opening the door and marching inside.

Marcy and Michael shared a look that expressed the annoyance with teenagers over a single glance before heading inside after the brunette girl.

Inside, Mallory spun around the house with a small frown. "So, what's wrong with this place?" She wondered.

"Excuse me?" Marcy frowned.

"Mallory, don't assume that just because we got lucky with this house there's a catch," Michael huffed. "That's not always the case."

"No, but seriously," Mallory insisted, releasing Rufus's leash and allowing him to roam about the house while she marched up to Marcy. "A house this old this cheap? There's gotta be some sort of catch. Is it haunted?" She smiled. She always did love ghosts.

When she was a kid, she had always loved scary stories. She loved the adrenaline rush and peering into the unknown. It was just her curious, thrill-seeking nature. Her mother always told her that Mallory had an uncle that spent his years scouring the planet, searching for thrills just like Mallory. She barely knew the man outside of the coolest Christmas presents possible, but she like to think she took after him in that aspect.

It was only when her father began to grow more violent and more attached to the beer bottles did that thrill-seeking nature turn into one that found thrills in the darkness. She had been forced into the darkness by her father and once she was there she became fascinated with what she found. Her mother's passing just months ago had only pressed her further into the darkness than she had ever been before.

"Actually," Marcy hesitated, sparing a worried glance at Michael who's eyes widened at the idea that there might actually be something wrong with the house. "Full disclosure requires I tell you that the previous owners of this house passed away in here."

"How did they die?" Mallory frowned.

"Well, the mother, Vivien Harmon, died during childbirth and the father, Ben Harmon, hung himself in his grief," Marcy explained.

"How romantic," Mallory deadpanned as she spun back around to glimpse across the house. "Where did he do it?"

"From the second story balcony," Marcy answered. "Just up there," she said, pointing up to where the man's body had been discovered.

"Huh," Mallory sighed, not really caring that the man had killed himself over his wife. If they had been murdered by some deranged serial killer while in the house she may have been a bit concerned, but if it's something as dull as that she didn't really have any complaints.

She glimpsed around the house while Marcy and her father talked about the house's history and all sorts of garb she could care less about.

She silently wondered whether or not the ghosts of the dead couple were lingering across the house. She believed that ghosts did exist but she never really decided on a theory on how they came to be.

Some said those who met violent deaths would become a ghost while others said if you didn't give someone a proper burial they would come to haunt you. Others simply believed that if a spirit can't move on it lingers and though Mallory knew there were hundreds of different theories out there, that was the one she most clung to.

Mallory waltzed back in just as Marcy and Michael were moving onto the topic of where the future had come from.

"-The previous owners," Marcy explained. "Once they passed it was left behind and you can replace whatever you like if you choose to move in."

"Has this house had anymore deaths or just the two?" Mallory asked as her father hesitated. "I mean, this house is old so it's gotta have some kind of history."

Marcy winced and seemed visibly concerned as to whether or not she should answer. "I-uh."

"Don't be worried we're not gonna buy this house because people died in it," Mallory snorted. "It's from the 1920's there's gotta be more than just two people, I mean people die in their homes all the time," she shrugged.

Marcy glanced between Michael and Mallory before taking a deep breath and nodding, finally accepting her fate. "Yes," she sighed. "There have been more deaths in this house, but the law only requires I tell you of the past three years," she reminded the young girl.

"Have there been murders?" Mallory asked, steadily growing more and more intrigued by the minute.

Marcy hesitated once again and looked more than anything like she wanted to bite her tongue and stopped the words from leaving her mouth, but they escaped regardless. "Yes," she confessed.

To her surprise, Mallory simply grinned. "We'll take it," she nodded and her father's face dropped.

* * *

On moving day, Mallory remained as far from her father as possible. When he was on the second floor, she'd be on the first and vice versa.

He was pissed about her accepting the house against his will but Mallory didn't care. He had run from her mother's ghost and she thought it was high time he got a little haunting from some other ghosts because of it.

Even if they didn't appear or had moved on past the house, she still wanted her father to get spooked by the place. That was the least she could ask as recompense for the way he had dropped her mother the second her heart stopped beating and ran for the hills.

She sighed as she plopped down on the hardwood floor of the living room and picked through one of her boxes. There were only two pictures that she had left of her mother and one was so heavily stained with time she could barely see her own face in it.

After her father's purge of all things Emilia Blake this was all that remained.

As she stared down at the photo, one of the movers walked up and chuckled softly as he glanced around the place. "Man, I'm surprised anybody actually moved in here," he muttered.

"What?" Mallory asked with a small frown, standing up to address him properly.

The mover looked to her with wide eyes, clearly startled that she had been listening in. "Oh, nothing, I just- I can't believe anybody would actually willingly move into this place."

"Why's that?" Mallory wondered.

"Well, it's the famous murder house," the man chuckled with a small shrug. "It's on the murder house tour."

"There's a murder house tour?!" Mallory exclaimed with a laugh. "How many murder houses does LA have?"

The man's eyes widened as he realized how good of a point she made. "Y'know you're right," he mumbled.

"Okay, well, out with it then," Mallory nodded. "What makes this house so special?" She asked.

"Well, it's just," the mover sighed. "I don't think I've heard of anyone getting out of this place without dying," he said.

"Mallory!" Michael hollered from upstairs. "Get your ass up here and get this damn dog out of my boxes!" He barked.

Mallory snorted and rolled her eyes. "Can you make that a promise?" She requested of the mover and he just smiled and shook his head.

"I think there was a case in the forties and nineties of people escaping but people usually died while they were there regardless. The only time I've ever heard of more than one person making it out of here alive is that lady Constance next door," he nodded to the house to the left of theirs. "But then her kid Addie died afterwards regardless," he shrugged.

"Well, remind me to pay her a visit because if I'm forced to live with him for more than a year I may become the next murderer in this house," she joked, nodding her head up the stairs to reference her father while the mover just laughed and shook his head as he continued carrying the box he was holding inside.

Taking a deep breath, Mallory prepared herself for whatever tyrade her father was about to go on because of one dog that didn't know better before marching up the steps.

"Mallory!" Michael hollered once again and Mallory rolled her eyes.

"Don't wet your panties, I'm on my way," Mallory moaned, swinging inside her father's room and raising a brow at him.

"Get your goddamn dog out of my boxes!" Michael shouted and Mallory sighed softly in frustration before walking over to Rufus and picking him up. She dragged him away from a box he was merely clawing at the sides of and placed him on the steps so he could run down and play with the movers.

"I swear to God, Mallory, if I have to place that dog in the attic or basement full time I will do it," Michael warned and Mallory rolled her eyes once again.

"You're acting like he was shredding your sheets or something," Mallory scoffed. "He just wanted to play with one of the boxes."

"Well, it's not my responsibility to entertain him is it?" Michael smirked as though he was smarter than Mallory in that aspect.

"I'm unpacking too," Mallory reminded him. "I'm sorry I can't spend every second playing with my dog," she huffed. "Besides, he's still young and in a new place. He's going to want to investigate everything he can."

"That's fine," Michael nodded as he pulled some hangers out of one of his boxes. "Just don't let him investigate in my room."

Mallory wanted to loudly groan in her father's face just so he could get an idea of how irritating he was being. However, before she got the chance, she heard Rufus loudly barking from downstairs and Michael shot her a glare that made her want to scream.

"Well?" He prompted with a raised brow. "Go look after it!" He yelled.

Mallory wasted no time stomping loudly down every single step so he could hear her frustration the entire way back to Rufus.

She swung around the corner and found Rufus barking at an unopened door just beneath the stairs.

"Oh, Rufus," she sighed, marching over to her dog and following his line of sight towards the door. "Is one of the movers in there?" She guessed, opening the door and creeping inside while Rufus continued to bark.

"Hello?" She called out to the basement and rather than a verbal response, she heard some boxes being knocked down. "Who's in here?" She asked. "I don't wanna close the door on you," she said.

Mallory tiptoed into onto the steps leading down and glanced around. It was full of cobwebs and appeared as though it hadn't been touched in decades.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, there was a light switch that unsurprisingly didn't work.

"Who's down here?" Mallory called, feeling a strange chill through the air as she crept further into the basement.

Just as she was about to give up her search for the sheer fact that the basement was making her strangely uneasy, two children with bright red hair flew past her laughing and from what she could see covered in dirt.

"Oh, my God!" Mallory exclaimed, clenching her chest with wide eyes as she glanced back at the place the kids had run to. "Alright, very funny," she moaned. "How did you get in here?!" She called to the children, walking through the basement after them. "Is there some sort of entrance to the basement I haven't seen?" She asked.

Mallory tried to figure out where they had gone, but eventually she reached a dead end and glanced around with wide eyes at an empty basement the kids couldn't have possibly found a way out of without her seeing or at least hearing.

"Okay," Mallory breathed. "Some kids died in the house who knows how long ago? That's not horrifying at all," she scoffed.

Mallory took a deep breath and headed back to the stairs. "I wonder if that means the wife and husband who died are still here as well," she mumbled, frowning as she glanced over her shoulder one last time before ascending.

She headed out of the basement and sighed as she found her dog still barking. "Ah, leave them alone, Rufus," she sighed. "They're dead, they don't need more trouble on their hands."

She turned her dog around and scoured the movers carrying their TVs inside. Once she caught the man who had told her about the deaths in the house, she bolted up to him.

"Hey," Mallory said. "I know you mentioned there had been lots of deaths in this house, but has there ever been rumor of this house being haunted?" She asked.

"Of course," the man scoffed. "What's a murder house without ghost stories?" He smirked. "Why are you getting freaked out?"

"No," Mallory snorted. "Ghosts haven't scared me since I was little. I always just felt bad for them because they were still stuck in this world instead of being able to move on," she shrugged. "I mean how shitty is it to die and think you're finally done with this bullshit existence only to be stuck here?"

The mover chuckled and shook his head. "You got a point there," he mumbled. "But if you're not scared of ghosts, why do you ask?" He wondered.

"Call it curiosity," Mallory shrugged. "Have there ever been two boys that died in here? Probably siblings at a guess?"

The mover frowned as he stopped and thought for a second. "I think there was a story about two twin boys going missing round these parts in the seventies," he nodded. "Why? Did you see them?" He smirked.

"Never mind," Mallory huffed, rolling her eyes at the man who clearly intended to make fun of her if she said she had. "Do you know where I can get the full story on this place?" She asked.

"You could go on the murder house tour," the mover offered with a shrug. "The guide usually tells the origin of the couple who made the place but they have these pamphlets at the end with all the places they went to and all the murders that took place in each," he explained. "They just added the Harmon deaths to the list."

"Great," Mallory smiled. "Because I will be wanting all the information I can get," she hummed.

She knew that if she was living in a house with ghosts, it was better to get on board and learn all she could because if she didn't she was going to go insane pretty quickly.


	3. Ghosts of the House

**A/N:** **Tate and Vivien's kid is named after how he was named in the wikia and how they stated they would be naming him in the eighth season (Apocalypse). I haven't seen the first episode yet and I wrote this before it aired so I wouldn't know if he was brought up and/or they actually chose to do that.**

* * *

"I can't believe you're still sticking to this!" Mallory yelled, practically chasing her father across the house as he headed towards the stairs. "I'm right in the middle of my senior year and you want me to start some new bullshit school?!"

"I'm not gonna homeschool you Mallory so don't act like you've got a chance at that," Michael huffed.

"I wasn't planning on it," Mallory scoffed. "If I was homeschooled by you all I'd learn is how to manipulate people when they're ill into housing you," she snapped.

Michael spun around and glared at Mallory. "For the last time, I didn't manipulate your mother! I was the only guardian you had in the state and she can't very well provide for you while she's in the hospital, can she?"

"I'm eighteen!" Mallory hollered. "I had a job. I think I can afford to take care of just myself seeing as she was still paying rent and hospital bills with the money she had."

"Regardless of whether or not you would have been able to take care of yourself, I'm your guardian now and while you're still in high school I'm meant to be taking care of you," Michael said matter of factly.

"I'll try not to comment on the irony," Mallory mumbled.

"That means," Michael said, entirely ignoring his daughter. "You will do as I say without any backtalk or I will not hesitate to ship you off to some godforsaken country where a relative you've never met lives and force you to stay there."

"It'd be better than be forced into a new school right at the end of my senior year," Mallory huffed. "Honestly, I could just take online classes," she moaned.

"I'm not having you become some fucking recluse with no excuse to leave the house," Michael snapped.

"Taking online classes, doesn't make you a recluse!" Mallory exclaimed. "It just makes it so I don't have to deal with learning my way around a new school and trying to make new friends only to leave them in a few months!" She snapped.

"Well, tough luck," Michael muttered. "Once winter break is over, you're going back to school whether you like it or not. I'm not gonna put up with you constantly lingering about the house twenty-four seven."

"You mean so you can spent your days at bars or fucking girls that I could have gone to high school with on every flat surface in the house?" Mallory implored with a small smirk.

"That's enough!" Michael barked, rushing up before his daughter and grabbing her forcibly by the chin, tugging her bright green eyes up to his. "I-."

He was cut off by a soft knocking at the front door.

Michael clenched his jaw and cast his gaze behind him towards the door. There was another knock and he took a deep breath before turning back to Mallory. "This conversation is not over," he warned and Mallory rolled her eyes as he walked up to the door and swung it open.

Standing on the front porch was a woman of two faces when she looked at Mallory and Michael separately.

Mallory saw an elderly woman with a ghostly eye in a maid's uniform with her bright red hair pulled back.

Michael, on the other hand, saw a young woman with two perfect eyes in a sexy maid's outfit, smirking enticingly at him.

"Good evening," the red-head smiled. "My name is Moira O'Hara. I was the maid for the last residents of the home and I was wondering if I might be of service to you all once more."

"Oh, ye-yeah of course," Michael mumbled, opening the door entirely so that Moira might step inside. "I'm Michael and this is my daughter Mallory," he introduced, smirking as he gazed over Moira's appearance disgustingly.

"Pleasure to meet you," Moira smiled, holding out her hand to shake Mallory's.

"Pleasure," Mallory nodded kindly as she shook the woman's hand. "Do we really need a maid?" She asked her father. "I dunno, the idea of a maid seems really sixteenth century, no offense."

"Oh, none taken," Moira assured her with a shake of her head. "Cleaning is what I'm good at so it is what I do," she said simply. "It relaxes me."

"This is a good thing, Mallory," Michael insisted, still eyeing Moira like she was a piece of meat as he closed the front door. "We can get someone to pick up after that mongrel you've got running across the house," he said and Mallory rolled her eyes.

"He's well trained," Mallory sighed. "He doesn't piss or shit in the house, he just sheds and it usually winds up in my room most of the time."

"Yeah, and you wait for God knows how long to clean that shit up," Michael snapped.

"If I cleaned up after my dog every time he shed I'd never stop cleaning," Mallory said.

"Well, then we've got a reason for a housekeeper!" Michael exclaimed and Mallory sighed in frustration.

"Fine. Get the damn maid. It's not like I have any say in what goes on in my own life anymore anyway," Mallory grumbled, turning and marching towards the kitchen while Moira and her father discussed the days she would work.

When Mallory opened the back door, Michael looked up with a small frown. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Taking Rufus out for a walk," Mallory shrugged. "See?" She smirked, raising a brow as she grabbed Rufus's leash and the dog came running. "This is me not being some fucking recluse," she reminded him and Michael rolled her eyes as she put the leash on her dog and headed outside.

As she walked down the sidewalk, it wasn't long before a little boy, likely no more than one or two years old came running towards Rufus with a pair of scissors.

"Oh, no!" Mallory exclaimed, yanking her dog back and falling to her knees to try and grab the scissors from the kid only to have him jab them into her arm. "Shit!" Mallory cried, falling backwards while the kid giggled as he watched the blood trickle down her arm.

"Michael!" A woman's voice called down the sidewalk. "Oh, Michael, where have you run off too?" Her Southern accent moaned.

"He's over here," Mallory grimaced, trying to stop the bleeding with her hand while the kid continued to laugh.

"Oh, goodness!" the woman cried when she spotted the scene. She bolted towards Mallory and Michael. She picked the child up off the ground and winced when she spotted Mallory's injury. "Oh, dear, I am so sorry. He's been getting into all sorts of trouble ever since he learned to walk," she sighed, brushing her short curly blonde hair out of her face.

"It's no trouble," Mallory shook her head. "Just, do you happen to have any bandages or stitches or anything so I don't end up bleeding out on the street?" She asked.

"Oh, yes of course!" the woman exclaimed. "Come with me, I live right next door to you," she assured the girl. "Though I wouldn't let that dog out of your sight if I were you," she warned. "Michael's taken to bringing me dead animals as of late and I wouldn't put it past him to try something with that poor little puppy."

"Noted," Mallory chuckled softly as she nodded. She kept a firm grip on the leash as she followed the woman back to her house while the woman kept one hand firmly gripping Michael's. "I'm Mallory, by the way."

"Oh, where are my manners?" the woman smiled as she opened the front gate leading into the lawn of her house. "I'm Constance Langdon," she introduced. "And this is my grandson Michael," she said, nodding to the young boy. "I've been looking after him since his father, my son, and his mother both passed on."

"Oh, what a shame," Mallory mumbled. "He must be quite the handful what with his affinity for blood," she remarked with a small smirk.

"Oh, he's a little monster, he is," Constance chuckled. "But nothing I can't handle," she nodded.

"I remember hearing this story when I was younger and my mom was obsessed with watching Dr Phil. There was this little girl who, when she was about five or six, she loved killing baby birds that would come in the birdhouse they had in the backyard. Once she got older she started chasing her older sister around with knives and tried to choke her parents in their sleep, so I'd keep an eye on him if I were you," Mallory warned.

"Oh, he'd never hurt me," Constance assured the girl with a wave of her hand as she opened the door and headed inside. "He's got a special place in his heart for his grandmother, doesn't he?" She grinned, leaning down and pinching Michael's cheek while he beamed at her.

"Well, you're very lucky," Mallory nodded.

"Oh, don't I know it," Constance smiled. "You hang on just a minute dear and I'll get you some stitches."

"No rush," Mallory sighed. "It's not as though the blood will freak Michael out," she chuckled and Constance laughed before hurrying down the corridor to get the first aid kit.

When she returned, Mallory eyed her warily as the brunette took a seat at the dining table. "Forgive me for asking, but aren't you the woman who lived in the house before me."

"Yes, but not for a while, dear," Constance said as she pulled the needle and disinfectant out. "After me there was Larry and then there were the gays," she said, distaste dripping from her mouth as she spoke. "Then there was the lovely little Harmon family."

"Yeah, but I-well, I heard that you were the only person to escape the murder house with more than one person alive," Mallory shrugged.

Constance took a deep breath and swiped Mallory's wound with disinfectant. "That was the case," she mumbled. "Until my poor little Addie was taken so cruelly from this world," she muttered.

"So, I heard," Mallory nodded. "How long did you live in this house?"

"Well, I originally left after my husband so tragically passed, but I came back when I moved in with dear Larry," she smiled. "Why do you want to know?"

"Do you know if it's haunted?" Mallory asked and Constance's face fell in the middle of her stitching.

"What are you talking about?" Constance deadpanned.

"Yesterday when my father and I first moved in I went down to the basement and there were these two boys running around in there," Mallory explained. "I thought they had just snuck inside, but when I tried to go after them, they disappeared with no possible way of getting out. I asked one of the movers and he said two boys had disappeared around my house in the seventies."

Constance glanced up at her and narrowed her eyes. "You seem to be awfully calm about this subject, dear," she remarked.

"I've always believed in ghosts," Mallory shrugged. "I mean millions of people die all the time so there's gotta be some place between being entirely dead and being alive. There's gotta be some instances where people just get stuck and that's all ghosts are. People who got stuck. They're not something to be afraid of unless they're the kinds of ghosts that are angry and just want to kill other people so they can end up stuck as well."

"Well, as kind as that may seem to them, that place is not just where people have gotten stuck," Constance warned. "It holds a much darker power, far beyond anything you or I could understand."

"What do you mean?" Mallory frowned.

"Those boys you saw yesterday are just two of many who are trapped within the walls of that house because those who die within its property never truly leave," Constance said ominously and just as Mallory was about to ask a million different questions, she heard Rufus barking loudly by the front door.

Mallory and Constance shared a wide eyed gaze before the both raced to the entrance to find Michael carrying a kitchen knife and holding Rufus down as he tried to hurt the poor dog.

"Oh, Michael, don't sweetie," Constance moaned, picking up the boy and holding him in her arms while Mallory tried to calm Rufus down. "I think it's best if you leave while that dog of yours is still safe."

Mallory took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright, but I still have more questions about that house," she said as she took Rufus's leash in her hand.

"And I will be more than happy to answer them in due time," Constance nodded. "But for now you need to get that dog to safety and look after that arm," she advised.

Mallory nodded. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she said, waving goodbye to Constance and Michael. "And it was nice meeting you too Michael even if you stabbed me," she said and Michael bounced happily in Constance's arms. Mallory giggled and shook her head before heading out and walking her dog back home.

She took Rufus in through the back entrance since she had not grabbed her keys and sighed softly as she hung up Rufus's leash and he went racing through the house to go have his own fun wherever it may be.

"Okay," Mallory mumbled. "I didn't go out for long but I still met somebody!" She exclaimed. "So, that should be proof enough that I still have all my social skills no matter if I'm in a school or not," she huffed. "Dad?" She prompted with a small frown, curious as to why she hadn't even heard so much as a groan of frustration from him when he stumbled across Rufus bolting across the house. "Where are-?"

She stopped in her tracks and felt her stomach rolling with absolute horror when her gaze wandered into the living room and she spotted her father making out with the elderly maid Moira.

"Oh, my God!" Mallory screamed.

Her father and Moira both turned to her with wide eyes and Mallory wasted no time in running as fast and as hard as she could away from them.

She bolted up the stairs and allowed Rufus to run after her before slamming the door to her room and locking it shut.

Mallory leant back against the door and tried to erase the image of her forty-year-old father passionately making out with a woman that had to be somewhere in her mid-sixties.

Unfortunately, before she had the time to cleanse her brain of the very memory, a voice in her room made her jump out of her skin.

"Hey," a girl smiled, nodding to her as the girl rifled through Mallory's belongings. "You really like scary movies, don't you?" She mumbled as she looked through the countless horror DVDS. "Though I've gotta hand it to you," she smirked as she sat back and looked at the cover on one of the discs. " _Cujo_ is a good one," she hummed.

"Sorry," Mallory frowned, shaking her head as she tiptoed closer to the girl. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Violet Harmon," the girl smiled, standing up momentarily to shake Mallory's hand.

"Harmon," Mallory breathed, remembering the name the realtor had mentioned to them when they moved in.

Violet's eyes widened as she seemed to realize the mistake she made and furiously tried to backtrack. "I don't mean Harmon, I just- I was on the murder house tour recently, I mean-."

"No, you said, Harmon," Mallory insisted, not planning on allowing the girl to try and backtrack so she could spout some lie. "Are you one of the ghosts that lives here?" She frowned, tiptoeing closer to the girl once again curiously and eyeing her like she was a science experiment.

"You know there are ghosts here?" Violet frowned, seeming as equally confused as Mallory.

"I saw some twins in the basement yesterday," Mallory shrugged. "I know they went missing in the seventies which means they died," she concluded. "Plus, Constance basically confirmed it for me when I told her I did believe in ghosts," she sighed. "I feel like she would have known I was going to lose my mind pretty quickly if she didn't just let me in and tell me the truth."

"Yeah, she had this psychic, Billie Dean something," Violet muttered. "That lady was weird but she always insisted if you don't get with the program you'll end up in a psych ward before you can click your heels three times and wish to wake up," she smirked.

"So, you are?" Mallory assumed. "Dead, I mean."

"How would you even guess that?" Violet wondered. "I mean, I heard Marcy, all she told you about was my parents."

"If you were really alive and a relative of the last people that lived here, why wouldn't you just knock on the door?" Mallory wondered. "And even if you were just trying to sneak back inside, why would you try to make me forget that you were a Harmon?"

"Damn," Violet muttered. "You're good," she remarked with a small smirk. "Much better than the last guy."

"There were other people that lived here?" Mallory frowned. "I thought you and your parents were the last occupants."

"Well, sort of," Violet shrugged. "We lived here for more than a day so technically we were the real occupants."

Mallory snorted. "What happened to the other people then?"

"My parents chased them out," Violet smirked. "They were gonna have a baby and anything that sweet and innocent can't really survive in this house," she mumbled.

"Ah, that's right," Mallory nodded. "Your mom died during childbirth so she'd know from experience," she remembered.

"Exactly," Violet sighed. "She was supposed to have twins. One died and one is living next door with Constance," she said and Mallory's eyes widened.

"That little psychopath in the making?" Mallory gasped.

"Yep," Violet chuckled. "He is the reason his twin died because he kept taking energy or power, or whatever the doctors said, from him and when he was born he let out one quick cry before he died."

"So, does that mean there's some ghost baby in this house?" Mallory frowned.

"Yeah," Violet sighed, sitting down on Mallory's bed. "My mom takes care of him. It's only been a year or so, but she seems to be fine with it," she shrugged. "I think she's gonna get really tired an eternity later though," she mumbled.

"I'll bet," Mallory chuckled. "So, are you all just ghosts because of this house, or something? Because that seemed along the lines of what Constance was getting at when I talked to her."

"Yeah," Violet nodded. "Something about this house keeps everyone who dies in it trapped."

"How many ghosts are in this house?" Mallory wondered. "I was going to go on the murder house tour so I could try and get an idea but it only goes every Saturday and I was moving then."

"Psh, dozens," Violet shrugged. "We can be seen when we want, can be physical when we want and do as we please. In fact, one of the ghosts here took it too far when he raped my mother," she mumbled, her jaw clenched in fury as she thought about the event. "He's the one who got her pregnant with that little psycho. The other twin that died was my Dad's."

"That can happen?!" Mallory exclaimed.

"Apparently," Violet sighed. "My dad always said it's a medical anomaly but entirely possible," she mumbled.

"No not the two different twins thing," Mallory shook her head. "I mean a ghost getting a living person pregnant."

"I was freaked out too," Violet nodded. "But according to Billie Dean it would have been a shot in a million and would have conjured the antichrist."

"Oh, that's cheerful," Mallory sighed as she sat on her bed beside Violet.

"Tell me about it," Violet muttered.

"Who was the ghost?" Mallory asked. "If you don't mind me asking. Like I know there are dozens of ghosts here but it would help if I could start learning names."

Violet took a deep breath and turned to meet Mallory's eyes before speaking. "His name was Tate Langdon."


	4. Tate Langdon

"Hey, Dad, I need-," Mallory began as she headed into her father's room that night only to be stopped in her tracks by some blonde woman (undoubtedly just a few years older than Mallory herself) bouncing on her father's dick. "Oh, of course," she moaned.

"Wha- Mallory?!" Her father hollered and Mallory rolled her eyes.

"When did she even get here?!" Mallory exclaimed.

"She came while you were locked away in your room like I said you would be," Michael huffed. "This is why you need Westfield High."

In truth, Mallory had actually been talking to Violet about when the girl had died and how she had lead what she thought was her life before Tate showed her that she actually was dead.

"Never mind that," Mallory sighed. "I came to ask where the spare pillows in the house were but _clearly_ you're busy."

"Yes, so, you would do well to get your ass out of here!" Michael hollered.

"Oh, give her a break, Mikey," the blonde cooed as she rubbed her hands up Michael's chest. "She's just a little kid."

"A little kid?" Mallory scoffed. "I'm probably around the same age as you."

"Really?" the blonde smiled, glancing back at Mallory with wide eyes. "I'm twenty, how old are you?!"

"Eighteen," Mallory sighed. "Really?" She moaned, looking back at her father. "Twenty?"

Her father just rolled his eyes, undoubtedly thinking he shouldn't have to listen to his own daughter judging who he was with.

"How much did he pay you because you gotta be walking out of here fucking rich for fucking someone like him," Mallory hummed.

"Oh, just my usual rates," the blonde shrugged.

"Ah, so you're a hooker," Mallory nodded. "Figures," she scoffed. "Nobody would want to sleep with him if it wasn't their job."

"Mallory!" Michael hollered.

"I've actually always wondered, do you guys take pills like those ones guys take to get their dicks up just so you can fuck guys like him?" Mallory asked. "Or is it just a lot of alcohol."

"Sometimes both," the blonde smiled. "Why, do you want one?"

"Nah," Mallory smirked. "See, I just saw two horrifyingly disgusting things in one day so if I try to eat I'll probably throw up the vomit I've been holding back," she said calmly and Michael rolled his eyes. "But just a word of advice so you can get things over quick with him. I know you're not having a good time so just act like you came and finish yourself off later. If you drag it out he'll just keep asking for you again and again," she sighed.

"Mallory!" Michael barked. "Are you going to leave?!"

"Not until you tell me where the pillows are because as much as I hate this," she said, gesturing to the woman on top of her father. "You making out with the old maid earlier was enough to stop me from vomiting up my dinner at the sight of a twenty-year-old having a horrible time."

Michael groaned and tossed his hands up in the air as though he was asking whatever God he believed was out there why he had to have children. "The pillows are in the goddamn attic, now for Christ's sake, leave me alone!" He roared.

"Gladly," she huffed and was all too happy to slam the door and turn away.

She headed down the corridor to where the attic laid and after a quick hop up to grab the staircase, she headed up into the attic and frowned at her dark surroundings.

"Oh, why is it always the attics and basements that are dark and creepy?" Mallory moaned, rolling her eyes at the area. She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and used its light to peer through all the boxes piled up in the attic. "Damn it," she muttered. "All the previous inhabitants must have their stuff left up here."

It was going to take ages for her to find the box of pillows when her father hadn't marked any of the boxes filled with household items.

As she glanced around the piles of boxes to see if she could spot which ones appeared to be clean and not covered in cobwebs or piles of dust, a small rubber ball bounced as it rolled down the floor and hit her feet.

"What the-?" Mallory frowned. She glanced down and picked up the ball before turning to look at its origins.

She couldn't see anybody lurking behind the dark black shadows so she had no way of knowing if someone had really rolled the ball or it had just slid down the floor once she had entered the attic.

Mallory shook her head and dismissed the manner, rolling the ball so it wouldn't go too far, but it was out of her way.

Just as she began to continue looking through the boxes, the ball rolled back to her.

Mallory stared down at it with wide eyes before picking it up once again. Slowly, she crept away from the boxes and glanced across the shadows searching for a face.

"Hello?" Mallory implored. "Who's here?"

Rather than a verbal response, she just received a strange clanging of chains.

"Can you not show your face?" Mallory guessed. It was likely that the chains were keeping him tied to one spot, incapable of moving too far. In response, once again, the chains clanged. Mallory glanced down at the ball in her hands and frowned. "Do you just want to play?" She asked.

The chains clanged, but this time they were much more frantic as though whoever was chained up was jumping.

Mallory smiled. "Okay, I think I've got some time on my hands," she hummed.

She walked over to the center of the attic floor and sat down before rolling the ball towards whoever was chained up. It was easy to assume that this was another one of the ghosts, otherwise Marcy had left out quite a major detail about a person being chained up in the attic and Mallory hoped full disclosure at least required her to mention that.

Mallory's only concern was who had chained some poor innocent person up in the attic and who had killed them?

She grinned as she rolled the ball to the individual and it was quickly rolled back to her. Little did she know, at that exact moment her father had decided to enter the attic and show her which box was filled with pillows.

"Can you show your face?" Mallory asked as she continued to roll the ball. "I'm not going to hurt you and I won't be afraid," she assured the person.

"Mallory?" Michael implored and Mallory jumped up with wide eyes. "Who the hell are you talking to?"

"I-uh-I, nobody," Mallory shook her head fiercely just as the ball rolled back to her and hit her in the foot.

Michael frowned at the ball before shaking his head and sighing softly. "You're talking to yourself now?" He deadpanned. "We really need to get you some friends."

"I had a friend back in Florida," Mallory snapped. "Before you yanked me from my home and drove to the other side of the country just so you could get away from the memory of my mother."

"We are not having this discussion now," Michael sighed. "In three weeks you'll be heading back to school and I won't have to deal with you lurking around every corner and interrupting me when I'm with somebody."

"You were with a hooker," Mallory scoffed. "I hardly feel like that's important."

"Oh, just-," Michael huffed and shook his head. "I'm showing you where the pillows and then I'm going to bed. Something I suggest you do if you know what's good for you," he warned.

Michael pulled himself up and into the attic and hunted through the boxes before glimpsing at one box in the center of the pile. He smirked and climbed over the nother boxes so he could pick it up and toss it to her.

"There. All the pillows you could ever need. Now, go the fuck to bed," Michael instructed and Mallory rolled her eyes as he headed back down the steps.

Mallory took a deep breath and leant down, rolling the ball one last time to the person in the shadows. "I'll come back tomorrow so we can play," she smiled. "Maybe, then you can show me who you are," she proposed with a nod.

With a final sigh, Mallory headed down the steps and closed up the attic for the night.

She headed back to her room and after she placed the box on the ground she noticed yet another person lurking in her room and looking through her things.

" _A Clockwork Orange_ ," the blonde boy remarked with a nod. "Nice."

"Do you guys just like appearing in people's rooms?" Mallory moaned as she opened up the box.

"Nah," the boy smiled. "It's just Violet and I in this room since it used to be ours," he shrugged. "Well, originally it was mine, then it was hers."

"And now it's mine," Mallory nodded. "So, tell me why you're here looking through my things just like her."

The blonde boy glanced down and took a deep breath. "I'm Tate," he said and Mallory's eyes widened.

"You're the ghost who managed to have a kid after death?" Mallory implored and Tate nodded. "Damn," she snorted. "I've never heard of a potent ghost before," she mumbled.

"Yeah, well, Violet hates me because of what I did," Tate huffed.

"That's no surprise," Mallory shrugged as she placed her pillows on her bed and pulled down her sheets. "You raped her mother, I mean I think that's how a normal person would react."

"But I'm not like that anymore," Tate insisted. "I changed, I mean, she changed me."

Mallory eyed Tate curiously for a moment. "Do you regret what you did to her mother?" She asked.

"Yes!" Tate exclaimed. "Of course! I-."

"No, wait," Mallory paused him, holding up a hand. "Do you regret it because you know she didn't like it or because you know it was wrong?" She asked and Tate faltered. "Exactly," Mallory smiled. "You haven't changed from what you did, Tate. You only want Violet to stop hating you," she shrugged.

"You sound like Dr Harmon," Tate mumbled.

"Oh, God forbid I sound like some shrink," Mallory moaned. "I love my mom but she had me see one the entire time I was a teenager and only stopped when she got sick because she couldn't afford it."

"Didn't you hate it?" Tate smirked.

"Of course," Mallory chuckled. "I only really had one friend when I got to high school and before then let's just say I wasn't the most popular kid on the street," she sighed. "Because of that, I stayed home a lot and just hung out in my room and he said that meant I was completely antisocial. My mom thought it was horseshit, but my dad bought into it."

"So, what did you do?" Tate wondered, leaning against her bed as he listened.

"There wasn't anything I could do," Mallory shrugged. "When the shrink finally got the balls to announce I had antisocial personality disorder, my dad wasn't even living with us. He got the news regardless but he was only able to start doing something about it when he was actually taking care of me," she said and Tate nodded in understanding.

"I thought antisocial personality disorder had more to it than just not talking to people," Tate mumbled.

"Oh, it does," Mallory nodded. "I'm also hostile, irresponsible, and irritable," she smiled.

Tate smirked. "Well, I was diagnosed as 'the worst kind of psychopath' according to Dr Harmon," he said and Mallory snorted.

"Good to meet you," she hummed, holding out her hand and shaking Tate's while he laughed.

"Now, I know where you get your interest in _Clockwork Orange_ ," Tate said and Mallory chuckled.

"Yeah," Mallory sighed. "Alex is great, but I like him better in the movie than the book," she shrugged.

"I think that's the first time anybody has ever said that," Tate chuckled and Mallory smiled.

"The book ending just seems so phony," Mallory muttered as she laid back on her bed and stared up at Tate. "I mean sure it's great he went back to being good, but it didn't really feel like the book lead up to that. I like the movie ending where he went back to being bad again much better."

Tate grinned. "Me too," he nodded. He glanced around the room and took a deep breath. "Do you think I stand a chance at getting her back?" He wondered.

Mallory sighed softly and shook her head. "You raped her mother, Tate, and then her mom died during childbirth. If it weren't for you, her mother would be alive."

"I didn't want to kill her mom," Tate muttered, walking over and sitting on Mallory's bed by her side. "I just wanted to give Nora a baby."

"Who's Nora?" Mallory frowned.

"Oh, she was-she's the original lady who lived in the house," Tate shrugged. "Her husband built the house for her."

"Ah," Mallory nodded. "And she wanted a baby?"

"Yeah," Tate mumbled. "I just wanted to make her happy," he sighed.

"Well, according to Violet, her mom was pregnant with her dad's child and your child so technically she could have had a baby even if you hadn't raped her," Mallory reminded the boy.

"I know that," Tate nodded. "I know that now, and my mom is raising the kid but I still want to apologize somehow."

"Constance is your mom?" Mallory snorted.

"Yeah," Tate mumbled. "She comes over to visit now and then," he shrugged. "She'll also go upstairs and visit Beau even though she was the one that killed him."

"Oh, so that's who's upstairs," Mallory hummed, nodding in understanding. "He wouldn't show his face when I was playing with him."

"He rarely does," Tate shook his head. "Ever since mom chained him up and made him feel like a monster he's been afraid to show his face," he muttered bitterly.

"God, and I thought she wasn't that bad of a parent," Mallory scoffed. "Maybe, that's just because she's raising another psychopath," she shrugged.

"What?" Tate frowned.

"Oh," Mallory winced. "Yeah, your son did this to me," she said, revealing the stitches on her arm. "And he tried to murder my dog."

"Why would he do that?" Tate wondered.

"Violet said something about the antichrist," Mallory shrugged. "Apparently when a dead guy and a living woman make somebody he's gonna be the antichrist."

"Oh, shit," Tate moaned, pulling his knees up to his chest and rubbing his forehead. "I made the antichrist?"

"Only probably," Mallory said. "Don't beat yourself up. There's every chance that he's only as psychotic as your mom."

"Oh, great," Tate scoffed and Mallory laughed.

"Don't worry about Violet," Mallory sighed. "She seems okay right now and maybe one day someone else she likes will die in the house and she'll be able to be happy."

"There was this other kid," Tate mumbled.

"Violet told me," Mallory nodded. "Another family that lived here that you guys scared out."

"Yeah, and they had a son that I could tell Violet liked. I tried to kill him so she could have him forever, but I just couldn't do it," Tate muttered. "He just kept looking at me and I didn't want him to die looking so afraid."

"That makes sense," Mallory nodded. "And Tate, as much as I'd love to keep up this conversation, I really don't want to end up going to bed at two in the morning because I stayed up talking to a dead guy all night."

Tate chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, yeah that makes sense," he sighed. "Can I by chance hang out with you tomorrow?" He asked, raising a hopeful brow. "I think I like talking to you."

"Sure," Mallory smiled. "It's not like I've got plans to do anything other than talk to dead people," she said and Tate laughed.

He headed out and Mallory grinned as she watched him leave. He was cute and despite the weird rape thing two years ago, Mallory could totally see herself developing a crush on him.

And it was with that thought that she drifted off into the first happy slumber she'd had since before her mother got sick.

When she woke up, she found Moira creepily lingerly at the foot of her bed and screamed.

"I don't mean to startle you, Miss, I just came in here to tell you that your father is demanding you go downstairs and meet him for breakfast," Moira explained and Mallory rolled her eyes as she shoved her sheets off her frame.

"You couldn't wake me up and tell me that?" Mallory grumbled as she pulled on some pyjama shorts she had laying on her floor already after two days of living in that house.

"He ordered me not to wake you up so he could see just how late you had stayed up," Moira recalled and Mallory groaned.

"Word of advice, Moira," Mallory sighed, grabbing the glass of water the maid held out for her and downing it in one gulp. "Just because you weirdly made out with my father doesn't mean you have to follow every little detail he commands. Especially, when he's not looking."

"I didn't make out with him he forced himself on me!" Moira exclaimed and Mallory turned to her with wide eyes. "Forgive me, Madam, but at the heart of all men is the wish to do what they want when they want without thought of any consequences."

"Ain't that the truth?" Mallory snorted. "And I know he has a sex drive that should be a crime when you're a parent," she sighed. "But what can I do?" She shrugged. "I'm stuck with him until I get enough money to buy my own place."

"You must wish for a more convenient way to rid yourself of him," Moira smiled and Mallory chuckled.

"Oh, almost always," Mallory hummed. "But never mind that, I have to go down and appease his royal highness before he throws a fit like a four-year-old and not the forty-year-old he is," she said and Moira's laughed followed her as she headed out into the corridor and down the stairs.

"Oh, finally!" Michael exclaimed when he spotted her. "She comes to graces us with her presence," he sighed.

"What corner store did you get breakfast from before trying to pass it off as your own?" Mallory retorted as she pulled some cereal out of the cupboard.

"Poppy and Rose," Michael mumbled. "Did you stay up again?" He asked.

"That's none of your business," Mallory sighed. "I'm eighteen and not in school, I should be able to stay up as late as I please."

"You'll be in school soon," Michael reminded her. "And as long as you're under my roof, you will live under my rules which means you go to bed when I tell you."

"You're a damn fool if you think this roof is yours," Mallory snorted as she pulled the milk out of the fridge.

"Mallory Blake, it's time you start realizing that I am your parent and my word is law," Michael snapped.

"I'll start acknowledging that you're my parent when you start acting like it," Mallory retorted. "But then again you were never capable of doing that were you?"

"Godammit Mallory!" Michael barked, standing up and slamming his hands on the table. "I am your father and you will treat me with some respect!"

"I'll treat you with respect when you, at the very least, give me some common human decency and don't fuck anybody and everybody that has a goddamn vagina!" Mallory yelled. "I suppose I should consider myself lucky that you haven't added me to your list of victims yet," she hissed, and that was Michael's tipping point.

Her father marched across the house and wrapped his fingers around her throat, pressing just hard enough to stop her from being able to breathe. He slammed her into the wall behind her and glared at her, pressing harder against her throat the more she struggled.

"Listen, you little bitch, if you want to keep me from leaving you on that bed in the attic and locking the fucking door you will do as I say. That means you don't walk in on me when I'm with somebody and you do what I say when I say it," Michael ordered. "If you can't even be bothered to obey your father there is nothing stopping me from sending you wherever I want and leaving you there to die," he hummed. "In fact, I could kill you right now," he smirked as he pressed down harder on her throat and Mallory let out a choked cry of pain. "You can join your little mommy and leave me here in fucking peace," he smiled, pressing down harder on her throat.

"Let her go," a voice commanded from the doorway leading into the dining room.

Michael's hands slid higher up Mallory's throat, but they didn't release her. "And who the hell are you?!" He barked.

Mallory fought to look at the source of the voice, but luckily he walked into her line of sight so she could notice him.

It was Tate. Tate was rescuing her.

"I'm her friend from the neighborhood," Tate shrugged.

"Since when do you have friends?!" Michael barked, jostling Mallory uncomfortably as though she could give an answer while his hands were around her throat.

"We met when you were moving in," Tate said. "Now, let her go or I'll call the cops," he said, holding up Mallory's phone and raising a brow at Michael.

Michael rolled his eyes and tossed Mallory onto the ground where Tate scrambled after her.

"I let her go, so if you breath a fucking word of this to your parents or the cops I'll put you both in the ground behind this house," Michael warned.

Tate nodded and raised his hands in surrender, silently assuring her father that he only wanted to make sure Mallory was alright.

Michael took a deep breath and nodded before marching out of the dining room and up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind him.

"Are you alright?" Tate mumbled, pushing back Mallory's hair so she could breathe without sucking in a face full of hair.

Mallory coughed and as she struggled to regain her breath, she nodded.

Tate took a deep breath and glanced around the room before helping Mallory to her feet. He headed into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before running back to Mallory and handing it to her.

"Here, drink this," Tate offered.

Mallory took a few sips before coughing and rubbing her throat once again. "It's hard to swallow," she croaked.

"It's okay," Tate nodded. "We'll go up to the attic," he assured her. "We'll be safe there."

Mallory could do nothing more than nod numbly as Tate took her arm and wrapped it around her shoulders so he could help her up the stairs towards the attic.


	5. Broken

**Trigger Warning: Descriptions of cutting, suicidal thoughts and actions, and parental abuse.**

* * *

"How did you die, Tate?" Mallory asked and Tate turned to her with wide eyes.

They had been up there almost the whole day after her father had tried to choke her to death and Tate occasionally went down to get Mallory some food when she was too frightened to go down on her own.

They had played with Beau, played chess, and Tate had even brought out some old pictures of the house and previous owners so she would know them if she saw them around the house.

As they spent more time together, Mallory grew more and more curious about the man she was spending her time with. Violet had told her that she killed herself and she knew how Violet's parents and Violet's brother all died, but she didn't know anything about Tate. She knew it was rude to ask, but she was morbidly curious.

"I don't-I," Tate mumbled awkwardly.

"You don't have to answer," Mallory assured him. "If it's hard to talk about or you don't remember all of it you don't have to tell me. I just wanted to know," she shrugged as she laid down on the hardwood floors of the attic.

"No," Tate muttered. "I didn't do that with Violet and I want to tell you," he nodded. "I killed a lot of people," he said. "I killed fifteen kids in a school shooting and set my mom's douchey boyfriend on fire."

"Why?" Mallory wondered.

Tate simply shrugged. "I set my mom's boyfriend on fire because I had hoped it would kill him so he got what was coming to him for killing my brother," he said and as though in response to this sentiment, Beau's chains rattled once again. "Plus, he always acted so high and mighty and like he was what was keeping the family together when in reality he was what wound up tearing it apart."

"So, a life for a life," Mallory nodded and Tate smiled and nodded as well.

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Tate sighed, almost feeling a weight be lifted off his shoulders in the face of someone beginning to understand him.

"I get that," Mallory said. "But why the school shooting?" She wondered.

"I," Tate sighed. "I like to think I killed people I like, or good people," he proposed with a shrug. "Because then they might have been free. They wouldn't have to live through a life like this. After all, I gave them all quick deaths," he nodded. "It was just one quick bullet so they wouldn't suffer."

"So, you wanted them to find some sort of peace on the other side?" Mallory guessed.

"Sort of, yeah," Tate nodded. "It's a filthy world we live in. A filthy, disgusting world and we know nothing but torment and pain," he muttered. "They got a free, gateway ticket into a life that is probably a whole lot better than this."

"I've always said life is the worst," Mallory hummed. "That's why I feel so bad for ghosts. They got the chance to leave this world behind when they died and yet they're stuck here."

"It's this house," Tate sighed. "The cops shot me here and now I'm stuck here."

"Is that why your mother lives next door?" Mallory wondered. "So she can visit you and your brother?" She guessed, nodding towards Beau in the corner.

"I think so," Tate muttered. "Not that it makes me happy," he said. "I hate her."

"What about your dad?" Mallory wondered.

"I never knew him," Tate shrugged. "He left when I was six."

"Lucky," Mallory scoffed. "My dad fractured my arm when my mom forced him out when I was a kid."

"It's funny," Tate chuckled. "You have the worst father in the world and I have the worst mother."

"At least your mother is raising your son," Mallory sighed. "If I had a kid my father wouldn't get within a mile of the kid."

"You think I'm grateful that my kid is probably gonna turn out to be just as psychotic as that bitch?" Tate snorted and Mallory laughed.

"You do realize the pot is calling the kettle black, right?" Mallory prompted and Tate rolled his eyes.

"Oh, what does it matter?" Tate sighed, spinning around and laying back, resting his head on Mallory's stomach. "I only made that kid so Nora would be happy and as soon as she got a kid she realized she didn't even want to be a mother," he huffed.

Mallory chuckled. "Ah, be careful what you wish for," she hummed.

"That's never been more true," he muttered.

Only a few seconds after their world fell into silence, there was a soft knocking at the door that made Mallory sit up and frown.

"Who's that?" Mallory wondered.

"Your dad's not expecting anyone?" Tate asked, raising a brow at the brunette.

"No, he's a pig but he at least has the common courtesy not to bring a hooker to the house every day," Mallory sighed. She got up and crawled over to the attic door, opening it just a crack so she could peer below them.

She glanced around for her father and eventually spotted him walking a blonde woman and child into the house.

Mallory sucked in a sharp breath and slammed the attic door shut before spinning back around to Tate.

"What?" Tate frowned. "Who is it?"

"Your mother," Mallory breathed and Tate's face fell. The brunette took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I have to get down there," she mumbled, beginning to open the attic door once again.

That was, until Tate grabbed her hand and stopped her in her tracks.

"Don't," Tate said and Mallory turned to him with a raised brow.

"I know she doesn't seem like the nicest woman, but don't you want to see your mother?" Mallory asked.

"No," Tate scoffed. "She's the reason I'm like this," he huffed. "She's the reason I'm so fucked up."

"My dad is the same way but I still have to talk to him, Tate," Mallory reminded him. "I mean, if I didn't the only people I'd talk to all day are dead."

"Well, I am dead," Tate shrugged and Mallory snorted.

"Good point," she nodded. "If she asks do you want me to tell her I don't know where you are?"

"No," Tate sighed. "If you do that she'll just go down to the basement and shout for me until I show up. Tell her I'm up here then at least she'll have to see Beau and be reminded of what she did to him," he muttered.

"You've really been holding this grudge for a while, haven't you?" Mallory prompted.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same," Tate scoffed.

"Good point," Mallory nodded. "I'll tell her you're in the attic," she promised, before opening the door once again and climbing down.

She hopped onto the floor and spun around to find the little one-year-old Michael beaming up at her.

"Hey, Michael," Mallory sighed.

"Bruises," Michael noticed, pointing up at her neck and grinning like he was the one that had created the bruises.

"Yep," Mallory nodded. "The other Michael did it," she mumbled, rubbing her neck subconsciously.

Michael just grinned wider. "Upsies," he requested, raising his hands into the air.

"Alright," Mallory said. "So long as you don't have something to stab me with in your back pocket," she warned. "Do a little spin around so I can make sure you're not trying to murder your first person."

Michael did as she instructed and spun around so she could see his whole person.

"Good boy," Mallory smiled. "I'm not exactly fond of joining your dad just yet," she mumbled.

She picked up Michael and carried him down the stairs as he attempted to climb all over her and drape his legs over her shoulders so that he could ride her.

Mallory carried the child all the way down to the kitchen where; Constance, Moira, and her father all sat.

"Gramma!" Michael exclaimed and Constance laughed joyfully when she spotted the boy.

"Oh, that's who you'd run off to," Constance chuckled as she picked Michael up and placed him on her lap.

"Sorry," Mallory's father frowned. "Did I just hear that boy right? Are you really old enough to be someone's grandmother?"

"Oh, yes," Constance hummed. "I could hardly believe it myself, but this child means everything to me," she smiled.

"Well, if you ever need help wrangling him, don't hesitate to shout," Mallory's father smirked and tossed a wink at Constance that almost made Mallory hurl up her breakfast.

"As if you could speak from experience," Mallory chortled and her father shot a glare at her.

"Speaking of which, young lady, I've called in a shrink to come to the houser and start having sessions with you," her father informed her and Mallory turned to him so fast she nearly got whiplash.

"What?!" Mallory exclaimed.

"Your last doctor diagnosed you with ASPD and according to Google the only way to cure that shit is therapy," he sighed. "Did you think you were getting a free ride now that we're in LA?" He implored, raising an unimpressed brow at her.

"I never thought I was getting a free ride!" Mallory snapped. "This is the exact opposite of a free ride!"

"Don't worry, dear," Constance assured her, trying to place a friendly hand on her arm which Mallory immediately flinched from. Constance frowned at her, but shook her head and dismissed the matter for the moment. "I sent my son, Tate, to therapy and it worked wonders," she hummed.

"No, it didn't," Mallory scoffed. "He's still as fucked up as ever and that's not because he needed more therapy, it's because he had shitty parents," she huffed. "Sound familiar?" She prompted, raising a brow at her father.

"Mallory, god damn it, you cannot say shit like that to company!" Michael barked. "Apologize to Ms Langdon right now."

"No!" Mallory shouted. "Because sure, I might have thought she was nice yesterday, but now I know the truth," she nodded. "That she is a cruel, abusive mother that drove her child to mass murder," she hissed before spinning around and storming out of the kitchen without another word.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Mallory's father exclaimed, but none of the women responded to him.

Instead, Constance placed Michael down on the ground so he could do as he pleased in the kitchen while she chased after Mallory.

She followed the brunette up the stairs and caught her just as she was about to slam her door shut for the rest of the night.

"Mallory!" Constance gasped and Mallory rolled her eyes when she noticed the blonde had caught the door with her foot. She couldn't shut the woman out now.

"What do you want?" Mallory asked, completely monotone as she spoke to the woman who had murdered her own child.

"You met Tate?" Constance noticed and Mallory rolled her eyes once again as she collapsed back onto her bed.

"Of course," Mallory mumbled. "If I hadn't I'd have an awfully strange knowledge of your family for someone who just met you yesterday."

"Oh, my boy," Constance muttered, clenching her heart as though she wasn't the one who had birthed a psychopath. "How is he?"

"Heartbroken over Violet, sick of you, so from what I'm gathering he seems to be his usual self," Mallory smiled.

"I never intentionally did anything to harm him," Constance said. "He was my perfect little boy. I would never hurt him," she insisted.

"Oh, so you would hurt Beau," Mallory nodded in understanding.

"You've see Beau?" Constance gasped and Mallory rolled his eyes.

"Yes, and I also saw the chains you put him in," Mallory responded. "Now, I'm no saint but putting your own child in chains and locking him in the attic? Seriously?" She scoffed. "And not only that but you ask your sleazy boyfriend to murder him?"

"Now, Beau died in his sleep!" Constance snapped. "I will not stand here and be insulted by the lies my son has been spouting in the single day you've known him," she said and Mallory sighed softly.

"Then leave," she shrugged. "Because clearly you didn't care enough about your children in life to try and make up for it in death."

Constance took a deep breath and glared at her. "Don't think this is the last you'll be hearing from me, missy," she warned.

"Well, that's a crying shame," Mallory huffed. "Now, vamanos," she said, waving the woman out of her room. "Good bye!" She exclaimed.

Constance shot her a look dripping in venom that positively screamed she wanted to say more, but regardless she kept her mouth shut and marched out of the room, slamming the room behind her.

Once she was gone, Tate appeared beside Mallory's bed with a grin wider than anything Mallory had ever seen cross his face.

"That was amazing," Tate muttered. "I've never seen anybody tell my mom off like that and have her actually listen," he chuckled.

"Technically, even if this house is currently my dad's, this is still my room," Mallory shrugged. "What's she going to do? Camp out here or something?"

"I wouldn't put it past her," Tate mumbled.

"Yeah, well, now she had a handful of a child to look after so she can't do that even if she wanted to," Mallory sighed.

"You're really…," Tate trailed off, ending his words on a soft sigh.

"What?" Mallory asked, raising a brow at him as she smirked.

"Different," Tate remarked and Mallory grinned.

"Good different?" She implored.

"I don't know yet," Tate mumbled and Mallory sighed.

"Well, good or bad different either way I'm going to go through hell when I go back to school," Mallory huffed.

"What school are you going to?" Tate asked.

"Westview," Mallory muttered. "My dad is making me going back even though I'm right in the middle of my senior year."

"Eesh. I hated Westview," Tate said and Mallory turned to him with a small frown.

"Was that where…?" She trailed off, but the obvious question hung in the air as she raised a brow at Tate.

"Yeah," Tate sighed. "I don't-I didn't know for a while why I had done it, but after a year in this house alone it started to come back to me."

"Did you dislike any of the people you killed?" Mallory wondered. "Like did they bully you or something?"

"No," Tate shook his head. "I either didn't know them or they were people that I liked."

"Because you thought you were setting them free," Mallory assumed with a nod.

"Exactly," Tate sighed. "I think when the cops came into my room at the end of it all I really wanted them to shoot me. I knew the alternative was a life far worse than anything I had dealt with while I was living with that bitch," he said, gesturing to the door where Constance was left. "So, I wanted some sort of freedom."

"And now you're stuck here," Mallory snorted. "Fate is a cruel mistress."

Tate nodded and sighed softly before he turned to narrow his eyes at Mallory and frown. She was taking all of this way better than Violet ever had.

"Why are you so cool with all of this?" Tate wondered.

"What, the school shooting?" Mallory asked and Tate nodded. "I dunno," Mallory shrugged, sighing softly as she leant back in her bed. "I can see what you mean when you say you wanted to set them free. I've thought countless times about being free of a world with stress and pain and depression and hopping over into whatever happens next, even if it is just an eternal sleep. Because honestly, that feels better than living in a world that will torment you for anything and everything it can pick out," she muttered. "Plus, it's not like karma hasn't already stabbed you in the ass for what you did," Mallory scoffed. "I'm not going to be furious when you're getting your comeuppance every day you're stuck in this fucking house," she sighed and Tate smiled.

He eyed her carefully as he thought. "You've had those thoughts too?"

"Yeah," Mallory mumbled. "It used to be on occasion when I was younger and my dad lived with us, because he'd insult me when I was really little for being a chubbier kid and for being stupid because I was really shit at school. Back then, I never tried to do anything but I would always imagine what my funeral would be like," she said. "Y'know, whether or not he'd be there or if he'd cry, how big my coffin would be, what would they say about a girl who died when she was like eleven."

"That's really fucking morbid," Tate remarked with a soft chuckle. "I used to do the same thing after my dad left," he informed her. "In fact," he said, climbing onto her bed and pulling down his sleeve. "I did this," he said, pointing to one of the many cuts sliced across his wrist. "Right after he left."

"Oh, I didn't start doing that until my mom got sick because that was when my dad moved back in," Mallory nodded. She pulled down her sleeves and revealed three lines across both of her wrists. "He found my first few here," she said, pointing to the first two cuts on her left wrists. "And he gave me a bloody nose right before school. Right after that day, my mom got worse and had to go back to the hospital and I was stuck with him so I tried to down a bunch of pills."

"What did he do?" Tate frowned.

"He tried to choke me to death like today," Mallory sighed. "He said if I wanted to kill myself then I shouldn't be such a coward and I should just go through with it."

"Jesus," Tate scoffed. "No wonder you hate him."

"I could say the same about you," Mallory nodded. "It's no wonder we're fucked up," she smiled.

"When all else fails, blame the worst parents in the world," Tate chuckled and Mallory laughed.

"Did your mom ever take you to therapy before you died?" Mallory wondered.

"Nope," Tate sighed. "Not like it would have done anything then, but she only thought I needed therapy after I died so Dr Harmon could help me realize I was dead."

"Did you know you were dead?" Mallory asked with a small frown.

"Yeah, I had known it for a while," Tate shrugged. "I didn't remember everything about my death at first, but right after I died I always remembered seeing a gun shoot and feeling the bullets hit my chest."

"That's horrifying," Mallory remarked and Tate laughed.

"Well, you asked," Tate reminded her and Mallory snorted.

"That I did," she sighed. "But did your mom seriously not find anything else you needed help with apart from realizing that you were dead?" She implored and Tate sighed and nodded.

"I'd like to be upset about it but even if she did wind up taking me to therapy while I was alive, I'd be just as pissed off as I am now," Tate shrugged. "After all, Dr Harmon told me therapy doesn't even work."

"Of course, it doesn't!" Mallory exclaimed. "It's just so people can empty their wallets for the delusion that they're getting better when in reality all they're doing is talking about how horrible they are to someone who could care less."

"I was wondering why people keep becoming shrinks if it doesn't work," Tate mumbled, frowning as he laid back on Mallory's bed with her. "I mean, who would want to spend every day listening to people whine?"

"They do it for the money," Mallory sighed. "You can get anyone to do anything if you fill their pockets with cash for it."

"So, people pretend that they're making sick people better just for the money?" Tate implored and Mallory nodded.

"Why else does anyone do anything?" Mallory wondered. "People don't act out of the good of their hearts anymore," she shook her head. "It's all about cash."

"I was right," Tate muttered. "It's a filthy capitalist society we live in."

"Always has been," Mallory mumbled. "It's just worse now because people are slowly beginning to not care about showing that all they want is cash. That's why I'm okay being this fucked up," she sighed. "Because while the rest of the world still tries to hide how rude or awful they are, I don't have to be afraid of being open about it."

"Yeah, that's the only upside," Tate sighed.

"You're not still hung up on Violet, are you?" Mallory frowned. "Because yeah, you fucked up but you shouldn't have to pretend to be guilty just so she'll like you again," she shrugged. "What's that mean for the relationship you want to start?"

"I just miss her," Tate muttered.

"Tell me if I'm wrong but I just don't think she's the type of girl that's gonna stay with a psychopath," Mallory huffed. "Because there is a world of difference between someone who's just angry at the world and doesn't feel remorse for fighting back against it, versus someone who is sad and feels beaten down by the world enough to down what sounded like a full bottle of pills."

"You tried to overdose and you're still angry at the world," Tate frowned.

"Yeah, but the difference is I did it to escape and be free, she did it because she either got so depressed that she knew whatever was waiting for her on the other side was better than this or because she just wanted to sleep and give up on the world. Either way, she was depressed every second she was drawing breath and fear of the unknown seemed far easier than what she was going through," Mallory explained. "I wanted to see the unknown and she felt she had no choice but to go into it."

"So, are you saying I can just never be with her?" Tate wondered.

"I don't know," Mallory shrugged. "I can't read her mind and I don't know if she'll be able to forgive you one of these days, but I do know that though you guys are similar you're not as alike as you probably think."

"I think I'm beginning to realize that," Tate nodded. "But I don't know how to be without her."

"Then, I'm sorry Tate, but you'll have to learn," Mallory sighed. "Find someone else to spend eternity with and let her do the same. I mean you probably have another twenty years before it starts to feel weird being with someone who looks around the same age as you, so that's more than enough time," she assured him.

"You're probably right."

"I know I am," Mallory smiled. "Now, come on. It's Monday which means my Dad is going to be out at some bar shooting pool tonight and I have the house to myself," she said, getting up and heading to the door.

"Oh, yeah, shouldn't your dad be at work?" Tate asked with a frown.

"Yeah, you'd think," Mallory scoffed. "He hasn't worked since mom died since he's living off the money she had and what we got when she passed."

"Is he going to go back to work?" Tate wondered.

"You'd have to ask him that," Mallory mumbled, heading out into the hallway and down the stairs. "I ask him something like that and he'll take it as a personal insult. God knows why, but that's why I hardly interact with him," she shrugged.

"You don't have to explain that much to me," Tate smirked. "I get why you-."

He was cut off my the sound of Mallory's father slammed a case containing a pool cue on the table and glaring at his daughter and Tate.

"If there is so much as a hair out of place by the time I get back I'll have both your heads on pikes," Michael warned.

"You'll be too intoxicated by the time you get back so what's the difference?" Mallory wondered.

"And that's another thing!" Michael snapped. "If you drink any of my good booze again I'll pour it down your throat while your sleeping."

"And I'll wake up thanking whatever being finally allowed me to die and escape you," Mallory hummed.

Michael rolled his eyes and picked up his case. "You're lucky I have to get going or I'd teach you another lesson about mouthing off to your father, no matter who's here," he warned.

"Well, count me truly sorry I couldn't distract you from getting so drunk you think teenage girls are legal," Mallory sighed and Michael glared at her and Tate.

"If you two start fucking make sure to use protection because I'm not going to provide for a younger version of this monster," Michael said, gesturing to Mallory who paled considerably.

"Dad!" Mallory shrieked.

"And don't worry, you won't be taking her virginity," Michael hummed. "She sold that off to the highest bidder at sixteen."

"Get the fuck out!" Mallory hollered, grabbing a glass that was sat on the island and getting ready to hurl it at his head.

"Oh, touchy when the shoe is on the other foot, are you?" Michael smirked. "I'm going, but just a reminder the shrink is coming by tomorrow to do what he can to fix you."

"I hate you," Mallory hissed, the hand holding the glass beginning to quiver with rage.

"Feeling's mutual, sweetie," Michael assured her. "Sleep tight and don't get pregnant," he advised, before heading out the back door of the house.


End file.
